Chapter 2
Alec
“Ace, you’re taking Elder North Road,” my boss says as he pulls the van against the curb.
The luxury neighborhood looks as if it came straight out of one of the magazines in my backpack.
I pull the bulky bag off my shoulders and dig through the collection of publications until I find the order pad.
After tucking it under my arm and situating my backpack on my shoulders once more, I climb out of the back of the van.
The vehicle speeds away, and I look ahead at my destination. I know what I have to do.
I pull a knife from my pocket and whip it open.
Fabric rips as I make a hole in my pants and another in my shirt.
Even though I don’t have a physical home, I still don’t consider myself homeless, but I’ll tell these people whatever they want to hear if it means I can fill out an order slip and leave with a pocket full of cash.
The sun blares down as my tattered shoes dare to traipse across perfect lawns. Stone facades stare down at me, and massive bay windows pass silent judgment. There are no toys to be seen in places like this. The children are down in the playroom with a nanny, most likely.
Before I found my crew, I hated these people. Their fucking fountains amongst pristine landscapes made me want to burn everything to the ground. But now? I love them. I see nothing but opportunity amongst their pretentious box hedges and ostentatious statues.
With a slight shake to my hand, I knock on the first door I reach.
I’m always nervous at first. I’m known for my sales, and I always wonder when it will end.
Even at twenty-five, I can pull off seventeen or eighteen, and the younger I look, the more they’re willing to spend.
My boyish looks will fade with every year in this lifestyle, though, and it’s only a matter of time before I’m on my own.
No one answers the first door, so I move on to the second, which is slammed in my face.
Unfortunately for the residents in this neighborhood, I just cannot accept defeat.
I’ll keep knocking on doors until I’m crawling from exhaustion if it means I’ll get the sales I need.
At least the third door stays open for me.
“Hello, ma’am. My name is Jeremy. Do you have a moment to talk about a fundraiser I’m doing for school?”
The woman doesn’t welcome me in, but she doesn’t slam the door, either. Seizing the opening, I pull off my backpack and produce the stack of magazines from inside. As soon as she sees them, she shakes her head.
“I’m not interested in magazines, thank you.” She begins to close the door, but I slide my foot in the way.
“Our school is trying to fund the resurfacing of our football field after Evan broke his leg on the last one. He slipped in a divot and almost ripped the thing right off.”
Her hand rises to her throat as she clutches figurative pearls in disgust. “I don’t read magazines.”
“No one reads magazines anymore, ma’am. I know that, and you know that, but this is what the school is offering.
I thought candy would be better, but I’d have a backpack full of melted product by now if they’d listened to me.
” I laugh, and it draws a small smile from the softening woman.
“Listen, I’ve been walking out here in this heat for two hours. Is there any way I can get a drink?”
The woman hesitates, eyeing me up and down before stepping back and letting me inside. I’m a bit surprised. Most of these women are too worried my poverty will rub off on their marble floors.
The interior is as magnificent as the picturesque view outside. A grand chandelier hangs above my head, its lights reflecting off the glasslike floor. Fresh flowers stand in a gaudy pink vase on a table in the center of the room.
No matter how many homes I’m invited into, I never seem to get over the grandiosity of it all. The trailer I grew up in would probably fit in this fucking hallway. Hell, it would probably fit in the broom closet here.
The woman tells me to wait in the hall before she disappears to get a drink for me. I eye the fancy candlesticks sitting on the table beside the door. They look like real silver pieces, and my fingers itch to swipe them, but just as I reach out to touch them, she appears with a glass of water.
I take it from her and down the contents in two gulps. I’m not actually as thirsty as I appear, considering I’ve been outside for all of twenty minutes. But it’s part of the act. I’m a salesman, but I’m not selling magazines. I’m selling myself.
“So, tell me about these magazines,” she says.
Now it’s time for the next part of the act. With a casual glance around, I search for something I can use to pull more heartstrings. My eyes catch on a pink rhinestone dog bed sitting just inside the next room. I flip through my magazines and pull out a dog-centered publication.
“I see you have a dog. I have a dachshund named Little Tippy, and sometimes she’ll even look at the pictures in this one with me. Something about the colorful photography really pulls her in.” I flip a few pages to showcase the photography, which is not actually anything special.
But it works, and she steps a little closer.
“Even if you only buy one yearly subscription, you can help us save the legs of future kids. The football field also gives so many young men the opportunity to go to college.” I slam the knife of emotional manipulation into her gut and twist. “I probably lost my scholarship because we can’t play right now, but there’s hope for the kids who come after me. ”
“How much is a subscription?”
“It’s a onetime fee of sixty-five dollars. It doesn’t automatically renew, either, so you’re under no obligation to keep going unless you like it. But no matter what, you’ll be helping our school.”
The woman sighs and goes for her purse. A credit card appears in her hand as I pull out the order book. That won’t do. A card payment can be traced—and canceled.
“I don’t have a way to process credit card payments. I can only take cash.” I pull out an envelope with SCHOOL written in black ink across the front. There’s already cash buried inside for believability.
It’s all about the illusion. The story.
She wrestles a wad of bills from her purse and hands it to me.
I hand over the order form. It’s fake. It goes nowhere.
No one ever gets these magazines. But the order form looks legit, and that’s all that matters.
Once I leave the house with my cash, I won’t give this woman and her McMansion a second thought.
Sixty-five dollars is a drop in the bucket for her, but it’s a filled bucket for me.
Once the transaction is complete, I offer a heartfelt thanks and head to the next door.
I rinse and repeat for the next few hours, then head toward the pickup point as the sun begins to set.
Of the twenty or so houses I stopped at, a total of ten bought a magazine subscription, and a few bought multiple.
Overall, it was a great day, and Stacks—our crew boss—will be happy.
I remove the envelope from my backpack and begin counting the money as I walk.
Satisfied with the total, I grab my order book, rip and crumple a few from the top, and let them fall to the ground.
The extra money I skim comes at the risk of losing the title as the weekly best seller, but I’m not in it for titles.
I climb into the van and take a seat on my friend’s lap. I’m the last of the crew to return, and crowding is a bit of an issue. With the money in my pocket, I can’t help but hope that I’ll be a crew boss one day instead of hitting the sidewalks.
One day.